 At a café in the main square of Rota, Spain “In ca5e I haven't mentioned, I am having to u5e the number 5 in place of the letter that come5 between R and T in the alphabet,” a friend emailed me this morning. “Alway5 something.... the letter i5 not working for some rea5on ... *but clearly sometimes it works..... Weird.” Yes, as you’ve probably noticed, computers are running amok in fresh, creative ways these days. I assume it’s our new AI overlords, warming up with a few frisky pranks before taking over the world. It’s the only way to account for my friend’s malfunctioning “S” key and for my epic battle this week with a nefarious online form. It all started with good news: the US Navy base at Rota, 78 miles south of Seville, had finally received a shipment of the newest Covid vaccine booster and would be happy to inoculate us. Just a quick update of my account with Tricare (military health insurance we have thanks to Rich’s Navy service) and then I could make an appointment. Easy-peasy, right?  Beyond human understanding... At once I ran into an impenetrable thicket of unfamiliar acronyms: MHS, DHA, DEERS, ADFM. I was assigned passwords, access codes, and PIN numbers. My personal and medical details were exhaustively examined. I had to formulate answers to a slew of security questions like where I’d gone to high school, my dog’s maiden name, and how I would set the ignition timing on a 1955 Bel Aire Chevrolet with a 327 cubic inch engine and a four barrel carburetor. And what did I get for my efforts? An Error Code 11 saying my form couldn’t be processed. Why not? A typo? A PIN pasted where the password should go? I kept trying. After four Error Code 11s, three Error Code 10s, and once, rather excitingly, an Error Code 5, I admitted defeat and called the help line operator.  Lily Tomlin as Ernestine, role model for phone operators everywhere The operator made suggestions for half an hour before asking, “How are you inputting the information?” What did she think I was using, telekinesis? “Typing,” I said. “And pasting in the longer codes…” “You can’t do that. No pasting, no auto-fill. Keystrokes only.” I was flabbergasted. Why? No really, why? “Was there a reason,” I asked through gritted teeth, “this was never mentioned anywhere in the instructions?” I could almost hear her shrug coming down the line.  So I re-entered every word and code by hand and finally got into the system. Only to learn I couldn't book an appointment because they were currently shifting to a new portal called Genesis. Until I’d had an appointment with Genesis, the bot explained, I couldn’t make an appointment with Genesis. “It’s Catch 22!” I exclaimed to Rich. “The military never disappoints. I guess we’ll just go down there and see what happens.” A few days later we rented a little Fiat and drove to the Navy base, where we were directed to Admin. To my delight, I walked into that administration office and saw something I never in a million years expected to find flying over a desk on a US military base: a rainbow flag. I’d have snapped a photo, but Rich explained taking pictures on a military base will get you arrested, possibly shot, so I refrained. But take it from me, the military isn’t what it used to be, and thank heavens for that. The young sailors in Admin sorted out our Genesis paperwork, and minutes later the medic was giving us our Covid shots. Whew! Now to enjoy part two of our outing: the small, beachfront town of Rota, a charming fishing village turned tourist mecca. I only hoped it wouldn’t be so overrun with holiday makers that we’d have trouble getting into one of the restaurants famed for seafood so fresh it winked at you on its way to the table. Leaving the Fiat in a vast seafront parking lot between a couple of large, drab cafeterias, we headed uphill for a recombobulation coffee. Settling at a café table across from the castle and the church, we listened to the gentle splash of a fountain and the desultory conversation of men taking their late-morning ease over glasses of sherry and beer. A balmy breeze carried the welcome news that, after weeks of near-freezing temperatures, the thermometer had suddenly shot up to 70 degrees.  El Castillo (the Castle) is across from the actual castle and next door to Rota's main church, La O. Rich and I lingered long over our coffee but eventually bestirred ourselves, knowing most places would close by 2:00 so everyone could to go home for lunch. Our first port of call was the 1571 Church of Santa Maria de la O, where we naturally expected to see “La O,” one of the ancient statues of a heavily pregnant Virgin Mary once popular in Spain. The name came from a ritual on her feast day, December 18, when “clerics in the choir after Vespers used to utter a loud and protracted ‘O,’ to express the longing of the universe for the coming of the Redeemer.” Nowadays images of a heavily pregnant Virgin are often considered unseemly, if not outright pagan. Her feast day has been expunged from the church calendar and most of her statues have been discreetly retired. Today, a conventional Our Lady of the Rosary presides over La O’s altar in Rota.  This pregnant madonna is still greeting visitors in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Spain. Although disappointed La O was no longer in residence, we thoroughly enjoyed Rota's cozy atmosphere. We admired the castle (built in 1295, now the town hall), the sweeping white sand beach, quaint side streets, and roomy parks. By 1:30 everything was deserted. Clearly it was time to think seriously about lunch. I’d done my homework and earmarked various promising places, all listed as “open” online. When will I learn? I could almost hear Google chuckling as it sent us all over town in search of these glorious eateries, all closed.  The name of this eatery (closed, of course) took on new meaning as I wandered hungrily through the streets of Rota. This was the off-season; nobody expected tourists or updated web listings. Only a few cafés remained open, and apologetic staff members explained they only had frozen, deep-fat fried fish balls and unheated, canned clams. A handful of tourists sat at the tables, drinking heavily, and who could blame them? Eventually Rich and I trudged back to the parking lot, where we’d noticed the two large cafeterias. One was the Fisherman’s Cooperative; surely they …? Nope. All frozen or canned stuff. With very, very low hopes we made our way to the Cantina Marinera. To our astonishment and joy, they were able to serve us fresh corvina (sea bass), hot, crisp, and perfectly cooked. We counted our blessings.  Corvina (sea bass) at Cantina Marinera, Rota And I am still counting my blessings. OK, this wasn’t the richest culinary experience in recent memory. There were head-banging frustrations. I’m more convinced than ever that robots are playing tricks on me. But I received the booster, which I believe ups my chances of survival. And I learned all over again that while cities like Seville have adopted international habits, there are still plenty of towns where people live by older rhythms. Winter is for slowing down. Warm mornings are for lingering in the sun. Midday is for family lunch. Every life offers us moments of comfort like these, if only we remember to embrace them.  A car is the most practical way to travel to the base or the town of Rota. Train and bus connections are awkward and require 3 or 4 hours instead of 1.5 hours. OUT TO LUNCH This story is part of my ongoing series "Out to Lunch." Mostly I write about visiting offbeat places in the city and province of Seville, often by train, seeking cultural curiosities and great eats. (Learn more.) This week I ventured a little further south to the province of Cádiz. WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] LIKE TO READ BOOKS? Be sure to check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  You have to love this lion emerging from Léon's sewers — a gift to the city from the sanitation workers. “And now you will see the most famous thumbs in the city,” said our guide Luis. Rich and I exchanged delighted glances. What new nuttery was this? Were we visiting the town’s Picasso, famous for its distorted hands? The miraculously preserved relics of Saint Eubondiga the Eight-Fingered? A science experiment run amok? The legendary vanishing hitchhiker? After two weeks on the road, my capacity for surprise should be exhausted, but somehow I’m continually stunned by what Spain shows off to visitors. Rich and I had headed north from Burgos to Léon, a city roaring with life. My theory is the town still reflects the character of the Roman legion that founded it 2000 years ago. Those guys were known for their kick-ass attitude on the battlefield and in the barroom. Their commander-in-chief, Julius Caesar, blamed some of this on those “damn Spaniards for whom drinking is living.” Even now, the presence of those formidable Romans can still be felt throughout the city. This week Léon pays homage to its most famous over-indulger, the late, legendary Genaro Blanco Blanco. On Holy Thursday night in 1929, the old rogue was very drunk, and while reeling along beside the Roman wall, he paused to answer the call of nature against its ancient stones, as had so many before him. Just then, the driver of the city’s first municipal dump truck took a turn too fast, lost control of the vehicle, and crashed into Genaro, killing him instantly. The tragedy would have soon been forgotten except for four witty bohemians, who decided to pay humorous homage to his memory with an annual Last Supper, poetry reading, and procession. Now, crowds continue to gather every Holy Thursday, in the midst of the grandeur and solemnity of pre-Easter processions, for this irreverent, wine-soaked revelry. How Genaro himself would have loved to be part of it.  This irreverent street party honoring Genero has become an established part of Léon's Holy Week. Léon’s ripsnorting atmosphere has inspired some bold architecture, including Casa Botines built by Antoni Gaudí. If you’ve seen his undulating works in Barcelona, you’ll be as surprised as I was to discover here his style was sternly gothic. In fact, it was designed to look like a dragon, with a door suggesting an open mouth, spiky railings, roof slates in the shape of scales, and (in case you missed the point) a statue of St. George dispatching a giant reptile on the front. When it opened in 1892, the upper floors were apartments for the prosperous middle class, while the bottom floor was a textile warehouse and shop. It’s now a museum with a goofy special effects screen that lets you see how you'd look in fashions from the era. After Léon, it was something of a shock to arrive in Oviedo, the sober and stalwart capital of the Asturias, a region nicknamed Switzerland by the Sea. Luis told me Ovieda’s been voted the cleanest city in Europe nine times, and twice ranked cleanest in the world. To say it’s orderly is like saying the Camino of Santiago is a good-ish walk. Take this date sign, created of pristine white gravel and living grass, which is changed daily (presumably at the stroke of midnight). If this was Seville, people would steal half the grass numbers and letters for souvenirs and rearrange the rest to spell out some pithy political or social commentary. Here, there’s not even a pebble of gravel out of place.  American readers: keep in mind that here in Europe, they show the day first, then the month. While the atmosphere may be Swiss, the food is straight from heaven. In the global ranking of cuisines, Spain is currently third, after Italian and Greek, and it’s easy to see why. Oviedo’s headliner is the traditional cachopo, a sort of veal sandwich in which two large pieces of veal serve as the “bread,” which is then stuffed with jamón (cured ham) and cheese, covered with a breadcrumb mixture, and fried. Not exactly health food! But I felt I owed it to my readers to perform a taste test, and wow, it was delicious. And I’m almost sure my arteries will recover before my cholesterol test in August.  We ate this cachopo at La Manzana, winner of the 2022 cachopo competition. Their secret: using three different cheeses. Because obviously one wouldn't be nearly rich enough. Another regional favorite is fabadas Asturianas (bean stew with chunks of sausage and pork belly), a specialty of the unfortunately named El Fartuquin restaurant. There Rich and I were surrounded by workmen on their lunchbreak, and we watched with awe as they consumed a bowl of fabadas, followed by cachopo or a half chicken, washed down with tinto de verano (red wine mixed with a soft drink), topped off with flan and coffee. The lunch of champions.  A bowl of fabadas Asturianas is a hearty meal in itself; even splitting a portion we couldn't quite finish it. Our selfless dedication to culinary research included a visit to the Rialto, home of Moscovitas: chocolate almond cookies with a famously secret ingredient and a legend claiming the recipe was found inside a set of Russian nesting dolls a traveler brought home from the USSR. Recent labeling laws forced the Rialto to reveal the secret ingredient: higher-fat almonds. (I didn’t know that was possible. See how educational travel can be?) Efforts by the Rialto to squash the legend, including an 80th anniversary box printed with their protests and images of Russian nesting dolls, naturally had the opposite effect — as perhaps was intended.  The name Moscovitas refers to these cookies' legendary origins in Moscow, Russia. Whatever the truth is about the recipe's source, I can say for sure it's a spectacularly tasty treat. By now I’ve seen countless churches, but I couldn’t pass up Oviedo’s cathedral because its relic collection is quite possibly the most extraordinary on the planet. Inside the Cámera Santa (Holy Chamber) is the Arca Santa, a box said to contain a piece of the True Cross, shards from the Crown of Thorns and Holy Sepulchre, bread from the Last Supper, a wine jar Jesus used for his miracle during the wedding at Cana, and some of the Virgin's breast milk. Of course, not being possessed of x-ray vision, I couldn’t actually see any of these marvels for myself. However I was able to view the Sweat-Cloth of Jesus, allegedly used to clean his face after the crucifixion. Naysayers point out radiocarbon dating places the age of the cloth at 700 AD; believers insist that can’t be right because stories about the cloth go back to 500 AD. Which is still off by five centuries, but who’s counting? The next day, when Luis led us to Oviedo’s most famous thumbs, Rich and I both stared in disbelief then burst out laughing. Evidently we’d misheard him; he wasn’t taking us to see thumbs but to see tombs. The handful of others on the tour looked at us oddly, but that’s nothing new for us. Confusions and misunderstandings are a way of life on the Nutters Tour, and luckily they give us plenty to chuckle about along the way. WHERE ARE WE NOW?  JUST JOINING US? HERE'S THE NUTTERS TOUR SO FAR Travel Alert: You Can't Always Get What You Want... (Madrid & Burgos) Gobsmacked at Every Turn but Embracing the Chaos (Jaén & Valdepeñas) All Aboard for the Nutters Tour of Spain (Packing & Organizing) THAT WAS FUN. WANT MORE? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] Curious? Enter any destination or topic in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  A near miss: Sadly, the colorful Paradise Bar closed its doors before I arrived in Burgos. “Lucy?” I asked. “Is that you?” As you’ve no doubt noticed, it’s never easy to tell one 3-million-year-old protohuman from another. Was this really the famous Lucy, the Australopithecus afarensis discovered in 1974 and named for a song by the Beatles? (For younger readers: that was Paul McCartney’s old band.) The skull itself wasn’t labeled, but the text next to it gave Lucy’s history, and I had the distinct impression I was intended to assume I was looking at her cranium. If I didn’t know her head and skeleton were in Ethiopia, I’d have been fooled. I managed to sidestep that error, but most days I find being fooled, perplexed, hornswoggled, and baffled is my default state on this Nutters Tour, and never more so than in Burgos. It began the moment Rich and I stepped off the train to discover the station was over four miles from town. (Why is it so inconveniently placed? Nobody could say.) The one taxi was seized by a spry fellow passenger who’d sprinted ahead. Luckily a kind passerby helped us catch the bus, and then it was just a matter of hiking up a hill so steep that long stretches of it had steps instead of sidewalk. “One more staircase,” Rich muttered toward the end, “and we’re going to abandon the bags.” Arriving at our building (with our bags), we then had to decipher elaborate high-tech entry instructions. These involved a computer link and a 300-word run-on sentence that — much as in Jaén last week — included everything except the actual apartment number. “Is it us?” I asked. “How does this keep happening?” I’ll spare you the details of the ensuing muddle, involving the wrong contact number, a disgruntled owner, and the harassed manager who provided detailed yet erroneous instructions. Suffice to say that in the fullness of time, we figured out how to disobey his directions and unlock the apartment door. I stepped inside, and my first glimpse of the view from our window left me breathless in a whole different way.  Viewed through my window, the spires of the Cathedral of St. Mary glowed in the late afternoon sun. I’d seen this cathedral once before, during a brief visit to Burgos many years ago. The city's landscape hadn't changed much except for the gigantic new Human Evolution Museum built to house astonishing fossils discovered in a nearby mountain. Archaeologists were particularly thrilled by a jawbone fragment dating back between 400,000 and 600,000 or possibly 850,000 years. For some reason, this was considered proof that humans had been in Europe for a million years. Now, math isn’t my strong suit, but doesn't that mean even the most optimistic estimate leaves us with a 150,000-year shortfall? Is it OK to simply round up like that? In science? Maddeningly, the museum didn’t explain any of this. There was an abundance of superfluous detail about the process of discovery but scant information about the actual finds. It was like being let loose in the laboratory of a mad scientist who expected you to piece together the ghoulish implications for yourself. After collecting the remains of saints, rulers, and warriors for more than a thousand years, Spain loves to put human body parts on display. It’s like living in a permanent state of Halloween. En route to Burgos, Rich and I made a brief stopover in Madrid, and when I discovered I was too late to get tickets to the exhibition featuring my favorite Spanish artist, Sorolla, I swallowed my disappointment and went to the next item on my must-see list: the bones of St. Valentine. I’d heard they were housed in a rather quirky inner city church. Quirky? The place was totally bonkers in such a wonderful way it made me wonder if the Universe really knew what it was doing that day. I wanted Sorolla tickets, but instead I got what I needed: a place where I could clearly see love made manifest in the world. That doesn't happen nearly often enough these days. Built in the 18th century as a leper hospital’s church, San Antón is now in the middle of Chueca, Madrid’s LGBTQ and hipster neighborhood. In 2015, after being closed for decades, San Antón was entrusted to Padre Ángel, the Catholic priest who co-founded the philanthropic Messengers of Peace in 1962. The priest (now 86) and his volunteers have transformed the Baroque church into a funky, free-wheeling community center that keeps its doors open 24/7. Hot meals are provided daily, pets are welcome, there’s a place to change your baby’s nappies, and pews are available for anyone who needs a warm, safe place to sleep. Mass is celebrated daily, and the confessionals have been replaced with counsellors providing advice and support. And on the wall, presiding over it all, are the bones of St. Valentine. His story begins in third-century Rome, when Emperor Claudius II decided his soldiers were neglecting their duties because they were too attached to their wives and families, so he banned marriage. The priest Valentine snuck around performing illegal weddings until he was caught and killed on February 14. He left a farewell note signed “Your Valentine,” little knowing his words would continue to be replicated on countless greeting cards nearly 2000 years later. Naysayers dispute many of the story’s details (OK, just about all of them) and point out the bones themselves are questionable. Remains of other St. Valentines are exhibited in Rome’s Basilica of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, in Dublin’s Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church, and elsewhere. But I like to believe he found his final resting place here, among the poor and marginalized who need a little extra love in their lives.  The sign says they're the remains of St. Valentine. And who knows, it might even be true. San Antón is a hard act to follow, but I have to say that the Cathedral of St. Mary of Burgos was pretty stunning in its own way. This vast gothic structure, built to receive pilgrims hiking the Camino de Santiago, took centuries to build and embellish; each section has its own personality and in some cases, images that appear more pagan than Christian. I was particularly interested in the cathedral’s chapel of St. Tecla, a woman revered as an ancient feminist. Her story, which began circulating in a second-century text, reads like something from the National Enquirer. She ran away from home to follow St. Paul the Apostle, for which she was condemned to be burned at the stake, but a storm doused the flames. She reunited with Paul, cut off her hair, and began dressing as a man. Some nobleman tried to rape her, so she fought back — and was convicted of assaulting him. Officials threw her into an arena to be eaten by wild beasts, but the lionesses defended her from the other animals. She then leapt into a lake filled with aggressive seals that attempted to devour her but lightning killed the beasts, leaving her unscathed. And those are just the highlights. Today she’s honored around the world as the unofficial patron saint of women’s empowerment. In Spain, where her name happens to be the same as the word for “key” on a keyboard, she’s half-jokingly referred to as the patron saint of computers, too. Fascinated by her colorful history, I intended to learn more about her by visiting her shrine in the Burgos cathedral. Alas! St. Tecla's chapel was closed. (No explanation why.)  This was all I got to see of St. Tecla's chapel in the Burgos cathedral. I realized that travel is a lot like the Internet. It's colorful and exciting but filled with dubious facts, outdated information, outright fabrications, and stuff you just can't get to, like the Bar Paraiso, the Sorolla exhibit, and El Cid's left radial bone. I may still be able to catch up with St. Tecla, however. She's the patron saint of Tarragona, another town on our itinerary; their human towers are part of the celebrations of her feast day, which start with parading her arm through the streets. I can only hope it's the one with which she slugged the nobleman mentioned above. You can look forward to learning more about her adventures, and ours, as the Nutters Tour continues. WHERE ARE WE NOW?  THAT WAS FUN. WANT MORE? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] Curious? Enter any destination or topic in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  I ordered a glass of the local vino, but the barman delivered a bottle. Was it that obvious I needed extra recombobulation when I arrived in Valdepeñas? Those who say GPS and Google have taken the mystery out of travel have clearly never visited Jaén, Spain. It’s a modern city with an old-fashioned attitude about sharing information: “If you live here you don’t need to ask, and if you don’t live here, you really don’t need to know.” Everything was shrouded in confusion. Take our lodgings, allegedly located at 23001 Bernabé Soriano Street near the cathedral. After a half hour’s laborious climb uphill from the train station, Rich and I arrived at Bernabé Soriano and saw the first street number was 2. Dear Lord, how many miles away was this place?  Bernabé Soriano is one of Jaén's liveliest streets, and quite a few of these neighbors pitched in to help us in our hour of need. What, me worry? In Spanish cities, every barrio is a village, so we asked the neighbors: the lady running the bakery, the guy at the health food store, the bouncer at an upscale bar, a dog walker named María Teresa, her friend, and her other friend Joaquin la Barba from the gastropub. Everyone tried to help, but we didn’t make real progress until Rich managed to get someone from booking.com on the phone. She found the correct, two-digit address, almost directly across the street from where we stood, and mentioned our landlady’s mother had been waiting out front for nearly two hours to let us in. Throughout all the muddle, everyone — including the landlady’s mother — remained remarkably cheerful, helpful, and kind. I was beginning to warm to this town.  The little blue arrow in the foreground is the only indication this is a one way street — another example of Jaén's discreet approach to sharing information. I asked our new friends about city’s famous ancient relic, the (alleged) Veil of Veronica, supposedly displayed every Friday in the cathedral at the top of our street. Nobody could provide details, but I wasn’t concerned because of course I could always ask at the tourist office. Imagine my surprise when I went there the next morning only to find the street under construction and the tourist office closed for the duration.  Rich stares aghast at the place where the tourist information office is supposed to be. “What is it with this town?” Rich said. “Isn’t it great?” I replied. “Everyone’s always complaining that Europe has become hopelessly touristy and there are no more authentic places left. Look at this city. Have you seen a single tourist since we got here? Have you heard anyone speaking English? This is the Spain we knew decades ago. Doing things its own way, not making everything slick and easy for visitors.” “No kidding,” he said. “If we manage to see Veronica’s Veil it’ll be a miracle.” Even without Veronica’s Veil there was plenty to see and do in Jaén. On Friday we arrived early at the cathedral and began asking where to find the nearby Church of the Sagrario in which the Veil apparently made its weekly appearance. We were misdirected to a chapel housing the crypt, the main cathedral entrance, and the former Convent of the Shoeless Carmelites with a famous 16th century statue of Jesus, but eventually we found the right spot. Doors wouldn’t open for another half hour, so we took a short walk. And that’s when I stumbled upon the absolute last thing I expected: a tourist office. And it was open. I went in, collected a map, and asked the woman at the desk about the city’s famous man-eating lizard. “Ah sí, el Legarto de Jaén.” She settled her hip more comfortable on the corner of the desk, leaning in. “This was long ago. There was a spring near the Church of the Magdalene; they said it lived there and came out to eat animals in the district. Some say humans, too.” She shrugged deprecatingly, and we both laughed. Yeah, that was pretty improbable. Not like the rest of the story. “They offered prisoners their freedom if they could kill it. One man volunteered. He threw pieces of bread on the ground to lure the beast downhill to the Church of San Ildefonso, where he had placed a lamb filled with explosives. The lizard ate the lamb and boom! He burst apart.” Problem solved!  Today all that's left of the Legarto de Jaén is this fountain, where he lurks harmlessly, eyeing the townspeople. By now it was almost time for the Veil to appear, so we thanked her and hurried back to Sagrario church. Besides the sacristan, we were the only ones there. Then a woman came in and leaned over to ask me, “Are you here to make a confession?” As the veteran viewer of a thousand cop shows, I knew the only proper response was, “Not without my lawyer.” Instead I mentioned Veronica’s Veil and she nodded and sat down. Half a dozen more people trickled in. Music began to play and a priest emerged, singing, holding aloft a dark image of a man’s face surrounded by gold and emeralds. In a ceremony that was brief, lovely, and respectful, the priest placed the image on a table, prayed, and disappeared out a side door so we could all take photos without feeling sacrilegious. Was it the real deal? Very doubtful indeed. For a start, the story is tradition, not gospel; it dates back only to medieval times, when religious relics were big business. A legend began to circulate about Veronica using her veil to wipe the blood and sweat from Jesus’ brow while he carried his cross; his face appeared on the cloth, which now had miraculous powers. Today, there are so many known copies of Veronica’s Veil that the Church has come up with a name for them: vernicles. This one most likely dates back to the 14th century, which was venerable enough for me. As much fun as all this was, yesterday Rich and I left Jaén for the wine-making city of Valdepeñas. We arrived at a charming, old-fashioned railway station that was completely closed up. A sign announced “Sale of tickets is temporarily suspended.” An online search revealed this was moot anyway, as all Monday’s trains to Madrid were fully booked.  Rich attempts to come to grips with a train station that won't sell him tickets. “This is nuts!” Rich exclaimed. “My point exactly,” I said. He sighed. “Guess we’ll be taking the bus.” The saving grace of this town? Our apartment is directly above the colorful and convivial San Antonio restaurant, epicenter of everyone’s social life around here. Picture the bar scene in Star Wars mixed with My Big Fat Greek Wedding and you’ll have the general idea. We seemed to be the only non-Valdepeñans in the place. Off the tourist track? We can’t even see the beaten path from here. And did I mention this town is famous for its wine? I was diligent in my research.  I didn't photograph the crowd in the bar last night, but many of the same faces and families showed up for Sunday lunch at various cafés in front of the cathedral today. To sum up, the Nutters Tour is off to a roaring start, and I am re-learning the most valuable road lesson of all: embrace the chaos. We have very little control over anything in life, and that goes double when we’re travelers, relying on the friendliness of strangers. “I accept chaos,” said Bob Dylan. “I’m not sure whether it accepts me.” So far, I feel the chaos is doing a great job of embracing me back.  For Rich, one of the highlights of Jaén was visiting the Museum of Popular Arts & Culture and leaping into one of the old washtubs, pretending to take a bath. Seconds later a guard thundered down the stairs and read him the riot act. Rich felt like a kid again. "Gosh, Mr. Wilson, I didn't mean nothing by it!" SO EXACTLY WHERE ARE WE?  THAT WAS FUN. WANT MORE? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] Curious? Enter any destination or topic in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it. “Would you and Rich be interested in going on the test run for a new food tour a friend of mine is starting here in Seville?” an expat pal asked me a few years ago. Tough work, but somebody has to do it! “If it’ll help,” I replied graciously, thinking Hot damn! This is gonna be good. And it was. Rich and I met up with Lauren Aloise and a small group of fellow volunteers to spend three hours strolling through the city’s back streets, nibbling and sipping along the way. We had fabulous food and a marvelous time. If I had a complaint at all, it was that I was so stuffed by the end of the tour that I couldn’t do justice to the final round of tapas. Since then, Lauren and I have kept in touch, and I thought her story would be fun to share here, as an example of how one American woman built a new life for herself in Spain. What drew you to Spain? I spent my junior year of college between Granada and Buenos Aires, and loved both. That said, I saw very little of Spain and left with a very basic understanding of the culture and cuisine. Despite living with a host family, my experience only just skimmed the surface. I was focused on bettering my Spanish (and enjoying Granada's amazing nightlife!) and my host mother was a terrible cook. I left Spain thinking that Spaniards didn't eat meat (I only had it once while there!). I never planned to return to live here, but I studied Spanish as a second major, and at the end of my last semester, my professor recommended the Auxiliar de Conversación program [training to work as an English language assistant in Spain]. At the same time, my boss at a restaurant I was working at kept urging me to spend time in Spain to learn all I could about Spanish food and wine — he was convinced it would be the next big thing and that it would give me a leg up in the hospitality industry when I returned. So I applied for the program and packed my suitcases!  Lauren eating a plate of churros, the popular fried dough often served with a cup of hot, dense, chocolate (it's practically pudding) for dipping. You had no intention of moving to Spain permanently? That's right, I came with the intention of spending a year or two in Europe to learn about different cuisines. But I met my husband within a couple weeks of arriving, and that caused me to stay in Seville. I met his parents pretty early on in the relationship and really bonded with his mother over food. She taught me that simplicity is key, that Spanish home cooks never measure, and shared her best recipes with me. I also learned patience (Spanish classics aren't complicated, but often cook over many hours) and to make the most of a small kitchen (hers is tiny -- and so is mine!). What inspired you to start your food and travel blog, Spanish Sabores? I was a part-time English language assistant and gave private English lessons, but I fiercely missed the hospitality industry I'd always been a part of. Since I couldn't work legally, I decided to start writing about food and travel on the web. I had a couple of blog failures before starting Spanish Sabores! But I've always loved writing, so blogging came easily, and I also loved the challenge of learning about everything else involved — from web design, to SEO, to photo editing. How did that lead to launching Devour Tours? After I got married I knew I needed to get back into my career in hospitality and tourism — but we were in the middle of a recession, and jobs were few and far between. My husband and I decided to take a chance and move to Madrid, so we bought a bus ticket and left on an adventure. He started a company right away, offering software services for renewable energy facilities. I started freelance writing about food and travel, and gave cooking classes. One day I found an ad for a food tour in France and thought it sounded perfect. Food tours combine amazing food, local history and culture, and support for small businesses — what's not to love? I could step away from the computer and actually show people the types of things I was already writing about. So I just dove in and created a website and a few experiences. Today Devour Tours is in six cities: Seville, Granada, Malaga, San Sebastian, Barcelona, and Madrid.  Exploring Seville's culture takes some of Lauren's tours to flamenco venues. What’s next? Our mission is to connect curious travelers with local food and communities in a way that helps culture thrive. We'd love to take our mission beyond Spain to other incredible food destinations. In the age of huge chains and the "hipsterization" of traditional neighborhoods, the places that make our cities unique are disappearing. I hope to be a small part of telling those stories and helping them survive. What do you love most about Spanish food? We keep it simple in Spain. We take an incredible ingredient and do as little as possible to it. Maybe a drizzle of olive oil, a splash of sherry vinegar, or perhaps just a few flakes of sea salt. It's very much a quality-focused food culture. Could you share a recipe with my readers? One of my favorites is my mother-in-law’s recipe for salmorejo, a cold soup that's gazpacho’s thicker, creamier cousin. See recipe and video.  Traditional salmorejo, as prepared by Lauren's mother-in-law What advice would you give Americans who are coming to Spain for the first time? I would recommend going slow, mixing big cities with some smaller villages, and coming back again and again. As for the food, be open minded and take a look at what the locals are eating before ordering. Don't expect lots of seasoning and sauces — enjoy the taste of the ingredients! And to kick everything off on the right foot, take a food tour! It'll set you up with context and tips for the rest of your trip. Have you been on a memorable food tour — anywhere in the world? I'm always thinking ahead to future trips, and would love to hear suggestions in the comments below. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY This interview just appeared on the popular expat website, Costa Women. As it's a members-only site, I got special permission to reprint it here, so you'd all have the chance to see it. Introducing Karen McCann Did you find Spain, or did Spain find you? I kind of stumbled across Spain on my way to Italy. Stopping in Marbella to visit friends en route to Florence, I found I really liked Andalucía. Then my husband told me he’d always wanted to learn Spanish. I believe his exact words were “How hard could it be?” (I think we all know the answer to that!) And Seville, tell us more From Marbella, I took a side trip to Seville and fell in love with the nutty mix of vibrant street life, age-old traditions and gorgeous 16th century architecture. Seville is like New Orleans, a grande dame who is magnificent long past her prime. And she has 3000 tapas bars; I have vowed to sample them all.  San Ildefonso Church, Seville, Spain How did you become a travel writer? In the US, I did more serious journalism, but that just doesn’t offer the same scope as describing what it’s like to eat fried flies in Thailand, buy a blowgun from a shaman in the Amazon, swap jokes with the Pope of Egypt or play with a baby bear in the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. I’ve just written a book about my experiences in Seville, but these other stories kept trying to sneak into the book, so I started a travel blog to give them a place of their own.  Me holding a Georgian grey bear cub, in a farmhouse on the Georgia-Chechnya border. The cub was very cute and cuddly but with very long, sharp claws and long, sharp teeth. NOT a teddy bear! Somewhere you have always wanted to travel but not visited yet? There are tons of places I’d like to visit. A friend’s husband was once offered a job in Mongolia, and I immediately told her, “Lucky you! What an adventure!” She said, “Two years living in a yurt in a remote mining camp in Mongolia – what part of that sounds like fun to you?” I could see her point. It would make a great blog post, though. Enjoy Living Abroad; what would you say is the most important part to settling in “abroad” To me, the key is mentally unpacking your bags. Years ago I moved from San Francisco to Cleveland for my husband’s job, and by a weird coincidence, the woman across the street had just done the same thing. She told me every night she dreamed of California and woke up with a hideous shock at finding herself in Cleveland. I built a wonderful life in that community, but to this woman it was like being condemned to live in a yurt in a remote mining camp in Mongolia. She never mentally unpacked her bags, hated being there and soon departed for another life. About Karen, a hobby you would like to share When I arrived in Seville, a Spanish friend convinced me to join her art class because it would be good for my social life. Painting sessions were held in a cramped, poorly ventilated classroom in a high school that was kept under perpetual lockdown in a barrio an hour away by bus, on the edge of the one seriously scary and dangerous neighborhood in the province. The first thing I was told was never, ever to use the school bathrooms; I never did find out why, and it was probably best left that way. But I rediscovered a love of painting and have been doing it ever since.  My painting, Voluptuous Pears II Where are you from originally? I’m a fourth-generation Californian. My great-great grandmother came from England to homestead in the Midwest, my great-grandmother travelled west by covered wagon and settled in Los Angeles, and my grandmother scandalized the family by becoming a silent film actress. My mother went to Stanford, and I grew up in what we called the Peninsula, a place the world now knows as Silicon Valley. Something we wouldn’t necessarily know about Karen I once joined a circus. I was stranded in a small California town with some college friends, and at a coffee house I met a teenager in a pith helmet who told me he was in town with the circus and they needed some extra hands. Before I could say “big top” I had a job selling popcorn when the regular popcorn lady was busy working as a clown. The job paid $35 a week, and I had a shot at becoming an apprentice clown. It was tempting, but in the end, I went back to college. If you were struck on a desert Island what would you have to have with you? Books. After that, maybe food and water.  My image of heaven What book do you have bedside your bed at the moment? I am in the middle of No Time for a Siesta by Costa Woman June Wolfe. It’s great fun reading about someone else’s expat adventures, especially when written in June’s lively and engaging style. I like her title, which would never have worked for my book, as I always take a siesta. Waking up a second time each day, I feel like I have 14 mornings a week. What do you snack on when you write? I drink lots of tea. And every once in a while, when I feel my brain needs extra stimulation, I eat chocolate. I don’t always keep it around the house, and sometimes my husband finds me burrowing into the back of the cupboard in search of crusty old baking chocolate or half-stale cookies, muttering dementedly, “Come on, I have to get this chapter finished…” He’ll ask, “Should I be seriously alarmed? Or are you just on deadline?” What other travel writers would you most like to sit next to at dinner? Among others, I’d love to sit with Bill Bryson, an American who lived in England for many years. He once said, “Coming back to your native land after an absence of many years is a surprisingly unsettling business, a little like waking up from a long coma.” I find this true even if I’ve only been away six months. America is something you have to stay in practice for. I visit the US twice a year, because I don’t want to lose my touch, but I spend eight months a year in Seville, because that’s where my heart is.  Plaza de España, Seville, Spain You have a book coming out; tell us more
Dancing in the Fountain, which will be out this summer, is my book about Seville and how living abroad can be a wonderful opportunity to hit the re-set button on your life. The title comes from one blazing hot night when my husband and I were sitting on the edge of a big stone fountain. We began dabbling our feet in the cool water, and the next thing I knew, we were wading then dancing in the fountain. It’s actually legal to do this in Seville, but an old man passing by growled at us, “Hey you two, is that any way to behave? You wouldn’t do that back where you come from.” And that’s my whole point. How can we find out more (website, Facebook, Twitter etc.)? My website enjoylivingabroad.com has snippets from the new book and photos of some of the characters, including the mysterious L-F, whom we suspect of being in the witness protection program. My blog is part of the website, and that’s where you’ll find stories about my other travels. On my Facebook page www.fb.com/enjoylivingabroad I’m tracking the progress of my book, which is in the final rewrite stage and due back to my editor at the end of this month. I think I can make the deadline, but it’s going to take a lot of chocolate. |
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I'm an American travel writer dividing my time between California and Seville, Spain. I travel the world seeking intriguing people, quirky places, and outrageously delicious food so I can have the fun of writing about them here.
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Winner of the Firebird Book Award for Travel
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